


365 Days (Seasons of Love Remix)

by victoria_p (musesfool)



Series: girl!Sam-five ways [10]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Angst, Dubious Consent, F/M, Remix, Remix2011, Schmoop, West Wing Title Project, Wincest - Freeform, girl!Sam, love spells
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-29
Updated: 2011-04-29
Packaged: 2017-10-18 18:58:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/192165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musesfool/pseuds/victoria_p
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's always a price to pay when dealing with faerie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	365 Days (Seasons of Love Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kumquatix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kumquatix/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Sam's face](https://archiveofourown.org/works/108758) by [kumquatix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kumquatix/pseuds/kumquatix). 



> Thanks so much to Snacky for cheerleading and betaing.

i. Spring

Dean comes to with Sam leaning over him, wearing an anxious look on her face that makes his stomach twist in knots.

"What?" he says, brusque to cover his own fear.

"Are you all right?"

"Huh." He takes a couple of seconds, does inventory--his left knee twinges and he's got a bruising ache that spans his shoulders, but otherwise--"I'm good. You?"

Her face clears, her smile like the sun breaking through the clouds. She hums in response, which could mean anything, but she's not bleeding, so he lets it go for the moment. She offers him a hand up and he takes it, grinning back at her. She's stronger than she looks. Always has been. She keeps watching him once he's upright and dusting dirt and grass off his jeans.

"What?" he says again, discomfited by the scrutiny. Usually he's the one watching her, and glancing away, embarrassed, when he gets caught.

Her face goes pink but she doesn't look away. "We should get back to the room. Make sure you're all right."

"Sam, I told you, I'm fine."

"I think our escape was a little too easy," she says. "Why would the Faerie Queen just let us go? It doesn't make sense."

"Yeah, but we were too much trouble to keep. She had to know that letting us fight our way out would be bad for her." He knows she knows he's bullshitting--her forehead is furrowed in a disbelieving frown, and they both know there's always a price to pay when dealing with faerie, usually one that's too high to think about--but for once in her life she doesn't argue.

They're at the car now, but instead of walking around to the passenger side to get in, Sam flings herself at him, all strong arms and long legs, pushing him back against the warm, pollen-covered metal. She smells like grass and sweat and she's squeezing hard enough to bruise his ribs. "I'm so glad I got you back," she says, her mouth a little too close to his ear to be comfortable. The heat of her breath sends a shiver though him.

It's not like he hasn't had these feelings for her since forever, but they've become a lot harder to ignore over the past couple of years, when everything else has been stripped away and all they've been left with is each other. He just never thought she felt the same way.

"Sam--"

She kisses him and it's like the whole world jerks on its axis and then snaps into place, better than it ever was before, right for the first time since he can remember.

He pushes her away gently. "Sam, we can't."

"We can," she says, "but you don't want to."

"I--" There's no way to answer that that doesn't end in a clusterfuck. "Sammy, I _can't_."

She doesn't speak to him at all on the ride back to the motel, just sits with her arms crossed over her chest and her mouth set in a stubborn pout he shouldn't find cute but does.

He knows she hasn't let it go, knows she won't, because she's like a fucking terrier with a bone when she gets something into that stupid brilliant brain of hers, but he doesn't expect to wake up with her in bed with him, her mouth hot against his throat and her hand slipping into his boxers.

He grabs her wrist, feels the rapid flutter of his pulse beneath his fingers, and holds on. "What the hell are you doing?" His voice is low and rough from sleep and arousal and irritation.

"Giving you a handjob," she answers with that angelic smile she used to give him after she'd eaten the last of the Lucky Charms or stolen his favorite t-shirt to sleep in. Like everything else about this situation, it's so wrong that it's absolutely right.

"Jesus, Sam."

She slings a leg over his hips and grinds down, and he discovers that she's not wearing any underwear. He can feel her slick, hot pussy against his belly, her bare ass against his dick, and he slams his head back against his pillow, trying to remember why this is a bad idea.

Sam grabs the hem of her t-shirt, pulls it up over her head and tosses it to the floor. Her skin glows in the blue light of the motel's neon sign. "Dean, please," she says, grabbing his hands and putting them on her tits. They're small and high and firm, the nipples hard against his palms.

"God," he says, fervent and hopeful, but he knows God doesn't give a rat's ass about what they do. It's never been God's wrath he was afraid of.

She leans in and kisses him again, her tongue in his mouth slick and full of dirty promises he wishes she would keep. It's easy, so easy, to give in, to let her move over him, hot and wet and tight, better than any heaven God or the angels could invent.

In the morning, it's like the whole world's been made over, the strange tension that's been between them forever finally eased, with this new thing taking its place.

Dean just hopes he doesn't fuck it up.

*

ii. Summer

Summer is a slow time for hunters--longer days and short nights mean less time for scary monsters to play in the dark--but Dean doesn't mind. He and Sam spend the long, humid days in a series of motel room beds, and for the rest of his life he'll remember it in snapshots: Sam's long, tanned legs against the white sheets as she reads a book and he tries to distract her, Sam's hair dark and wet from the ocean as she pops up out of the waves and tries to pull him under, the taste of cherry ice on her tongue when she cajoles him into stopping at a roadside ice stand for dessert. And always, always, the shine of love and desire in her eyes, that he'd never thought he'd see, that she wants him, _needs_ him, as much as he needs her.

Dean's never stayed in one place long enough to have this kind of slow relationship of firsts--all of his firsts were with different people and almost never anything with the same person twice--but it makes sense that when he finally does, it's with Sam, because Sam is first in every other way in his life and always has been.

The only thing that worries him is the fact that summer always ends. He'd hated it as a kid--the pressing knowledge that school was about to start up and the long days of freedom would be replaced with the same old boring routine, no matter where they ended up living. He can't help but worry that this is going to be the same thing, only a million times worse; September will come and Sam will leave, and there will be nothing he can do to stop her.

She tries to convince him, with her body as much as her words, but as August rolls into September, he can't help fearing what the fall will bring.

*

iii. Fall

The leaves in the small New England town are bright and brilliant for fall, but Dean doesn't have much energy to spare for admiring them. He's got a bunch of people dead from some kind of magical poison nobody can identify and none of their usual methods pan out. He doesn't want to visit the psychic Bobby sends them to--he and Sam have too many secrets to hide and he doesn't need some small-minded spoon-bender judging him for sleeping with his sister. He's got that angle covered all by himself. Still, when no other leads turn up and the bodies keep falling, they make their way to Greta Lawson's shop.

It smells of incense and cigarette smoke and a bell chimes when Dean pushes the door open.

A voice calls out, "Be right--Well, fuck. Aren't you two a mess of faerie magic?" A tall gray-haired woman with the lantern jaw comes out from a back room and looks them over.

"Is that what's causing these deaths?" Sam asks, trying to shimmy her way past Dean, who's stopped in the doorway. He holds an arm out to block her. The woman doesn't look like a threat, but Dean doesn't want to take any chances.

"No, that's a _nāginī_."

"The snake from Harry Potter is killing people?" Sam asks incredulously.

"Rowling named the snake after the creature, not the other way around," Greta answers.

"You two can geek out about the Monster Book of Monsters later," Dean says. "What faerie magic are you talking about?"

Greta looks at him closely then, almost like she's got x-ray vision or something; his skin starts to itch. "Not you," she says. "You're just caught up in the spillover." She shifts her gaze to Sam. "You, though, it's all over you." She purses her lips and closes her eyes. "Oh." She opens her eyes again and now she just looks sad, like they're something to be pitied. "I'm so sorry."

"What? What is it?" Dean can feel Sam's hand on the small of his back, just above the spot where his gun is tucked into his waistband, the pressure of it telling him to be cool, but he doesn't feel calm or cool.

"It looks like a love spell," Greta says.

"You're wrong," Sam says immediately. "I'd know if I were under a spell."

"No, you wouldn't."

Dean swallows hard, fighting off the urge to puke, the taste of bile sour and bitter in the back of his throat. "How do we break it?"

"There's no spell, Dean. I--"

Dean holds up hand and Sam's voice sputters to a halt.

"You can't," Greta says. "But most faerie spells last a year and a day."

Sam's hand slips under his shirt, warm against his suddenly clammy skin. Her voice is insistent, challenging, when she says, "There's no spell, Dean. I've always--" She stops, as if she suddenly realizes that they're not alone and maybe she shouldn't admit she's fucking her brother in front of other people, even if the other people are psychic and already seem to know. "Nothing's changed, and nothing will," is what she says, and Dean wishes he could believe her, but he knows the truth; he feels it in the sick clench of his belly and the shame that burns his ears.

Sam curls her fingers into the waistband of his jeans, and he kind of hates how much he needs that right now, almost as much as he hates what's going to happen when the spell is broken and she finds out what they've been doing--what he's been doing to her for months now.

He focuses on the hunt, years of practice at that helping him. He takes a deep breath and forces the words past the tightness in his throat.

"Do you know how to kill the nāginī?"

The look Greta gives him is sad and knowing. "Cut off its head."

"Of course. Decapitation. Why didn't I think of that?" he mutters.

"Come on, Dean. Let's go." Sam pulls him out of the little shop, then turns back and sticks her head around the door. "You're wrong," she says. "I'm not under a spell."

"Do you always have to get the last word?" Dean says as the door slams shut behind them.

"I almost never get the last word," she answers, keeping her hands on him as they walk back to the car.

Dean snorts. "That's a lie."

She turns again, presses up against him, the way she did that first time they kissed. "It's not a spell."

"How do you know that?" He shakes his head. "I knew we escaped too easily. You said it yourself. The Faerie Queen--Jesus fuck, this is just the kind of sick, twisted shit she'd go for." He rubs his chin, trying to ignore the hurt look on Sam's face.

"So what we're doing is sick and twisted?"

"You're my little sister! And when this spell is broken..." He trails off, shoves her away, and finally gives in to the urge to puke his guts out.

She rubs his back and brushes his hair off his forehead and hands him a bottle of water when he's done. He rinses out his mouth and spits, but he's never going to get rid of the taste of shame and guilt.

"Dean--"

He forces himself to meet her eyes when he says, "I am so, so sorry, Sammy."

Then he goes to get his machete out of the trunk, because they have a giant demon snake to kill.

*

iv. Winter

Winter comes early, and has nothing on the arctic deep-freeze Sam is treating him to because he's gone back to getting rooms with two beds and insists they use them both, separately. He spends his nights getting shitfaced and pretending he hasn't spent the last six months fucking his sister.

He doesn't pick up anyone else--he wants to, or, he _wants_ to want to, but even if Sam hadn't looked at him with pain and fury the first time he hit on a woman with serious intent, he doesn't want anyone but her. For years he'd been happy, had a lot of good sex with a lot of different people, always knowing that he couldn't ever have the one he really wanted deep down inside. He'd made peace with that fact, and now it's like having his face rubbed in it, because now he's had her, and he doesn't think he'll ever want anyone else again.

He doesn't want to be blindsided, so he sets up an alarm on his phone, marking the one-year anniversary of this clusterfuck, the day that Sam is finally going to leave him again, this time for good.

The weird part is that they still work well together, still finish each other's sentences on the rare occasions they talk about more than whatever monster they're hunting this week. He wakes up from whatever sleep he gets to find her watching him, cross-legged and still as a statue on the other bed, her eyes dark in the dimness of the room. He can't read her like this, everything he thought he knew thrown off by the knowledge that he didn't know anything, or he chose to ignore the few things he did know, like the fact that there's no way on earth Sam would have willingly slept with him if she wasn't under a spell. He knows that he's not what she really wants, even if she's finally given up her sad, childish fantasy of normality.

Winter is long, but Dean tells himself to get used to it. He'll never be warm again.

*

v. Spring

Dean wakes up to the sound of his phone beeping at him, beep beep beep, and he stares at it for a second, confused.

"Hi," Sam says. She's sitting on the end of his bed, legs crossed tailor-style, elbows resting on her knees, chin resting on her hands. "You should probably shut that off."

He sits up and fumbles with the phone, his fingers sleep-clumsy and his brain a few seconds behind. "You're still here," he finally says.

"Where else would I be?"

Dean scrubs a hand through his hair. "Not here. Not after what I did."

"What _we_ did," she says, uncoiling and moving over him, knees cradling his hips.

"Sam." He reaches out a hand and lowers it, not sure he should touch her. "I'm sorry."

"I know." Her mouth curves in a sad little smile that breaks his heart. "You don't need to be." She holds up a hand when he opens his mouth, so he closes it again. "There was a spell. I can still feel the vestiges of it, but it wasn't--it didn't--" She gives a little grunt of frustration. "It didn't make me _want_ you. I've _always_ wanted you, Dean. In one way or another." She makes another little sound, this one more like a laugh. "It just made me actually do something about it."

"I--What?"

"Don't make me say it all again," she says, settling herself more firmly in his lap. "I know how much you hate these heart-to-hearts." She kisses him, soft and warm, and though he'll never admit it, Dean thinks he can hear birds singing.

end

~*~


End file.
